


Room of Remembrance

by TheDarkMetalLady



Series: Fading Embers [1]
Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Oneshot, Sad, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:18:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkMetalLady/pseuds/TheDarkMetalLady
Summary: In the aftermath of the final battle, Ralathor is left with an unavoidable task.





	Room of Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Ebony_Draygon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebony_Draygon/) as a gift for being such an amazing person.
> 
> I do not own the Gloryhammer characters. Please note that this story is about the _characters represented by the band_ and **not** about the band members themselves.
> 
> Thanks to [Oceania Pancakeia](https://oceaniapancakeia.tumblr.com/) for beta reading!

The Hootsman and Ralathor walked into the once-mighty citadel of Dundee, both exhausted and battle-weary. Neither had spoken to the other since the battle, but that was less due to disagreement and more due to pure exhaustion, both physical and mental. They were returning alive and victorious, with news of the victory against the Dark Sorcerer -- a victory that came at a price no one wished for. 

Both collapsed on the nearest bench almost immediately, legs giving out instantly after having walked from the battlefield of Cowdenbeath to the remnants of once-mighty Dundee on foot. Around them, people scurried down the corridors and paths, either looking for loved ones or already employed on beginning to rebuild the citadel and attempt to return it to its former glory, a task especially gargantuan when the very land was oversaturated with blood.

After a few minutes, it was the Hootsman who spoke first.

“I shall go find the Princess,” he declared, “she must be informed of our return and of what transpired.”

Ralathor only gave a small nod in reply, and Hoots went off. The submarine commander knew that this arrangement was for the better. The Hootsman was much better with interacting with people, after all, and the presence of the entity that people had worshipped and called upon for aid would surely help raise morale for rebuilding the kingdom despite the tragedy that had occurred. Unfortunately, it left a different task to Ralathor -- one that was necessary, no matter how much he wished it wasn’t.

Willing his legs to work, he slowly pushed himself off the bench and to his feet, then stretched his sore muscles for a moment. He reached up to grab his hat before he remembered that he had lost it in the aftermath of firing the missiles of nuclear justice, so he instead brushed his fingers through his hair, which had gotten all sorts of messy, filthy, and tangled in the battle. Part of him wondered if it would even be possible to remove all the grime and knots from it or if he should just cut it short. He shook his hand off afterwards, watching as a few flakes of dirt fell from his fingertips, and then used that hand to cast a small spell and open a portal to the underground fortress built beneath the ruins of the village of Achnasheen -- the fortress that was the primary base of the Hootsforce.

He walked down the paths and halls, mostly keeping to himself. He was all too aware of people taking notice of him: guards staring, onlookers gawking, children pointing. On occasion, a warrior would salute him, which he would return, even if he felt a bit of bile threatening to rise in the back of his throat at the thought of how the Battle of Cowdenbeath had gone in this dimension. He didn’t even know how many people had died under his command. 

After all too short a long walk, the latter half of which was through residential hallways that were blessedly empty, he reached a nondescript door that looked just like every other door in the hall. He raised his hand slightly, as if instinct demanded that he knock upon the door, but he knew there would be no answer even if he did. Instead, he reached for the door handle, only to find the door was locked. Right. 

He let go of the handle and thought to himself a moment, stepping back. Then, he crouched down and lifted up the ugly green welcome mat that was in front of the door. He reached around beneath it, feeling for something. After a few moments, he put the mat back down and got up, a small silver key in his hand. He put the silver key into the lock on the door, and it turned smoothly with a click that sent a ripple across the veil of silence that encompassed the area. 

He gripped the handle, lingering for a few seconds before pulling it down and slowly pushing open the door, almost wincing at the gods-forsaken screech the hinges had made. He let the door swing open before entering, as if still lingering to the hope that he was wrong, that the last few hours had been nothing but a delusional dream after hitting his head too hard during the explosion of the missiles. Alas, no such thing occurred.

The room was the exact same mess he remembered it being when he had last been here. The bed was unmade and had a pile of dirty laundry shoved half-way under it; the desk was a mess of papers, writing utensils, and the occasional dining room silverware; an empty armor stand in the corner had a pair of pants slung over it; there were even some training weapons scattered about on the floor and various surfaces, most notably one fastened to the top of a mirror. 

Ralathor took a deep breath before taking a careful step into the room, as if partially fearful that a wrong move would cause for him to be smited by a higher power. He was careful to not disturb anything yet, focusing on first approaching the desk. He attempted to find what he was looking for without upsetting the current layout of the room, but it quickly became clear that the document he was looking for would be buried somewhere beneath the top layer of papers. He sighed to himself before leaning over the desk and beginning to sift through the papers.

It took almost ten minutes of searching the top of the desk as well as its drawers until he found the document he had been looking for -- it had fallen behind the drawer and had been barely visible. He had to move the entire desk slightly in order to manage to reach it and get it out without damaging it. Thankfully, he soon held the parchment in his hands. The document was written in what he highly suspected to be gold-infused ink, for he knew that the author of it would have accepted no less flare. 

_ The Will and Final Wishes of Angus McFife XIII _

A slight shiver went up Ralathor’s spine, causing him to shift slightly. Just reading the words on paper and knowing that this was a necessity brought him many feelings of uncomfort and pain; alas, the submarine commander knew that the prince from the alternate dimension had requested that, should anything happen to him, Ralathor would be the one to gain inheritance of everything, as the ex-hermit was the only familiar one to the prince in this dimension. (That was reflected in the document, too:  _ “So hail to you, all that I’ve known here…” _ ) 

In the end, the document had only corroborated what Ralathor had suspected, though the additional certainty it brought was welcome, even if he wished that the prince himself were here instead of Ralathor having to search for a letter to confirm it. Though the prince being there would have made the whole thing moot regardless, as then Ralathor wouldn’t need to be worrying about what to do with all the worldly belongings that had been left behind.

Ralathor shook his head to snap out of his thoughts. He had what he came here for; deciding what to do could come later. Right now, he needed to rest, for both his physical and mental states were a bit battered and worn and in desperate need of bandaging up. 

As he looked around the room again, something felt… odd. He frowned to himself, and looked around carefully. The bed was unmade and had a pile of dirty laundry shoved half-way under it; the desk was a mess of papers, writing utensils, and the occasional dining room silverware; an empty armor stand in the corner had a horned helmet atop of it, the horns slightly charred and the whole thing covered in soot; there were even some training weapons scattered about on the floor and on various--

Ralathor froze. 

**Author's Note:**

> There are currently no plans for a continuation or second piece; let me know if you would be interested in one, though. 
> 
> Want to see some of my other works or request a story? Check out my tumblr [here](https://thedarkmetallady.tumblr.com/) and my prompt and request rules [here](https://thedarkmetallady.tumblr.com/PromptAndRequestRules).


End file.
